Once Was
by sigmalied
Summary: After years apart Leliana and her love are finally free to retire to a more peaceful existence, but they have forever been scarred and changed by the cruelties of time. They are no longer the people they once were, and never will be again. F!Amell Warden/Leliana


**A/N:** Spoilers for a few events during Dragon Age Inquisition. Frequently jumps back and forth between the present to memories from Origins. Wanted to write on Leliana and my Warden Kanín Amell just this once, mostly in practice for future Dragon Age stuff.

**Rating:** T for some violence, death, and non-explicit mentions of intimacy. Descriptions of blood magic may be reminiscent of self-harm.

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><p>A stream of hot tea ran from the spout and into a porcelain cup trimmed round its lip by dainty images of roses strung along a band of gold. Its twin cup was equally filled afterward, giving rise to wisps of pale steam. At the center of the low, black walnut table sat a plate of miniature red berry pastries to be consumed by placement of their entireties in one's mouth; freshly purchased that morning before the dark, deep clouds had rolled in.<p>

As Leliana stirred a small spoonful of honey into her own tea, she glanced upward to find that the former Grey Warden was still gazing pensively out of the window under which the table had been placed in desire of a view of gilded canals and ornamental spires at some distance, through neat rows of tall-reaching poplar standing on green hills. Despite the brisk rain, Kanín had left the window open just a bit so the sounds of popping water droplets spilling into the flowerbox on the sill, running over pink petals and verdant green leaves before running down the white brick exterior, provided a more intimate ambiance in addition to the snapping of fire roasting several logs in their andirons some paces away.

They sat on little mounds of embroidered cushions of purple, olive green, and burgundy. Kanín had once said that they were present out of nostalgia; during her many years in Kinloch Hold, her quarters and rooms of study always had similar arrangements in addition to limited seating. Decades-old cushions against hard cold stone, over which layers of gaudy carpets—worn, sometimes with little burn marks or frayed holes—were lazily draped.

Leaving the mage to her private thoughts, Leliana took her cup of tea in her hands, enjoying the simple pleasure of the heat radiating into her cold hands.

It had been two weeks since they relocated from Denerim to Val Royeaux. Autumn was upon them, a season more pleasurably spent in the latter city. Although Ferelden's capital had always been dear to Kanín, she had expressed nothing but accommodating agreement when Leliana proposed they also bought property in the coveted jewel of Orlais. A seasonal-determinant residence in either estate had been decided upon. But it was not so because Leliana disliked Denerim. On the contrary, the city housed countless vital memories and pieces of who and what she was. So many things had occurred in Denerim, from devastating betrayals to exhilarating bar brawls and illicit operations, from brutal war to her joyous rendezvous with Kanín several months previously.

When Leliana first laid eyes upon her in the foyer of her Denerim estate, she had barely recognized her. The weight of time had assaulted her in that moment, bringing back images of Kanín when they first met in Lothering. The excruciatingly young mage with the bitter scowl, brooding brown eyes, and unevenly trimmed fingernails. The mage with long, dark hair tousled by travel and a mien suggestive of eastern Tevinter ancestry, albeit suffering some degree of unnatural pallor from a life spent by wan flickers of candlelight instead of sunlight. The mage who wasted no time at all in foully cursing Loghain's soldiers and starting a fight with them within Dane's Refuge, much to the dismay of a particular lay sister who had attempted to remedy the situation peacefully.

Leliana still remembered the sight of overturning tables and Alistair kicking chairs into the soldiers to offset their balance before striking their armor with his blade. Nearby, Morrigan had frozen feet to the floor in solid ice shackles as their snarling mabari leapt at them, took flailing limbs into his jaws, and thrashed until plate mail was shredded to bits. All the while Kanín ducked beneath swung swords and lit clothes aflame with a touch of a palm or staff, from which bursts of fire flicked and danced and spread unchecked once they left her hand. Inevitably, wayward flames had licked at the hems of Leliana's Chantry robes and climbed them, and she had been forced to sheath her daggers and spend several panicked seconds beating them back.

It was an... _interesting_ first impression, and Kanín did not even apologize for inadvertently setting her ablaze that day. Not for the entire month until it came up again during chit-chat around their campfire one night.

More than a decade later in Denerim she stood there as if meeting her a second time over. Kanín now carried the disposition of nobility, of refinement and tact, thoughtfulness and elegance. Even her wardrobe had evolved into long, loose robes and gemmed rings whose discreet gleams under light, as noted by Leliana's sharp wit, confessed that they had been imbued with magic.

And what changes had Kanín perceived in Leliana, when rushing over to wrap her arms around the other woman? Could she sense the permanent clouds of subterfuge brooding over her head, brought everywhere she journeyed and thus found lingering in the shadows that gathered in the high corners of the ceiling? Could she smell blood on her traveling cloak, or just the woodland scents of grass and loam and humble boles? Did she feel the little scars on her fingertips—carved there by late-night close calls—as Leliana affectionately held her face and stroked her cheekbones with nicked thumbs? And when she tenderly kissed her love with lips that had overwhelmingly produced more orders for death than terms of sweet endearment, had they turned cold like the frigid Frostback winters, or were they still warm like the bustling summer markets? In reflection, the questions were not so much in concern for Kanín's comfort and acceptance, and more so for her own sanity.

"…I suppose we won't be out strolling today," she heard Kanín say. Still she observed the dreary weather beyond the window, and between her index and thumb was idly pinched one of the tiny confections. "Nor tomorrow—mud always seems to clash with whatever I wear out." A small smile was offered.

The expression was returned, as was a reply, "I bet I could pick out some shoes that would prove you wrong. Mmm, mud against a backdrop of brocade silk and leather boots, perhaps… an exquisite aesthetic, don't you think?"

"The next trend in Orlesian fashion this coming spring," Kanín agreed with a laugh.

A knock at the wooden door captured their attention. When granted permission to enter, a servant wrapped up in a damp coat and a wool scarf gingerly greeted them both before approaching their windowside table and laying down the post for the day. The stack of sealed letters was shorter than usual; likely due to delays the rainstorm was causing couriers. When the servant asked if either of them required anything additional of her, Kanín declined, lifted their plate of pastries from the table, and invited the servant to take one for herself.

"Oh, I couldn't, Madame," she confessed. "Non, merci beaucoup._"_

Only upon insisting was the servant finally persuaded to have one of the sweets for herself.

Alone again, Kanín paused to haphazardly tie and pin her black hair away from her face before sorting through the mail. Most were letters from nobles and dignitaries, with one from an old friend still residing in the Ferelden Circle Tower, and another from Weisshaupt.

_A_ c_oward twice over now,_ some vain Weisshaupt Wardens had written Kanín after somehow acquiring her address, referring to the mysterious circumstances under which Urthemiel was slain without its soul taking the life of a Grey Warden along with it, and now again for abandoning the order.

As if any of them had any authority to pass judgement on one of the scarce Wardens who had brought the Fifth Blight to a swift end... It was strange to Leliana, to watch Kanín read those letters only to tear them in half when finished and never deign to pen them a response. A younger Kanín would've rolled up the sleeves of her robes and demanded they step down from their pedestals to engage her personally, compensating slightness of stature with fire breathing, both figuratively and literally. But _this_ Kanín did nothing at all. Was it a product of maturity or concession? Did she no longer feel as though she could contend with her critics, or did she feel above their remarks altogether?

Post bearing both of their names, or Leliana's alone, were passed to her side of the table.

She had never explicitly said so, but out of all postage arriving at the house Leliana by far received the most. But they passed through no hands of servants, and only on rare occasion did they so much as briefly touch the fingertips of couriers. From sender to recipient, the majority of letters addressed and sent by Leliana were handled by several ebony-feathered agents roosting in the loft, whose single window remained open for their admittance.

It was a lifestyle first adopted when she came into service of Divine Justinia V, and continued to prove invaluable during the height of the Inquisition. It was also a lifestyle that was not easily abandoned after so many years of use. Just the thought of releasing her ravens from their duty and begin relying solely on the vagaries of human speed and discretion made her skin crawl with anxiety. _This_ had been a major tool in building her network. Preemptive knowledge won battles. Sensitive information passing borders unchecked had brought the highest lords to their knees. Nothing could separate her from them now. Not even the prospect of living placidly could not tear her away from the security of awareness.

Each morning she would greet the fragile, peach-hued dawn from the loft's open window, slipping little rolls of parchment out of their capsules and reading what coded messages lied within. Her thin frame would hunch as she read to keep her cloak from sliding off her shoulders, and the fluttering of wings would sound behind and around her, as if the ravens themselves were curious to see what they had carried home through mountains and over valleys.

The lasting project was not kept secret from Kanín. The mage knew what lied above her head (the occasional skritch-scratching and somber caw would have revealed it regardless of whether she was informed), and she had an inkling as to what nature of correspondences were being held there.

The former bard would not have refused to share her letters with Kanín if asked… but she was _not_ asked. Not even once. Rather, Kanín voluntarily declined to partake; both in using the birds herself and in knowing just what Leliana wrote and read. The years had unkindly trimmed back her youthful overgrowth of curiosity, it seemed, into idylls of peaceful ignorance. Leliana didn't blame her, for a time in her life had arrived—after witnessing a menagerie of horrors—when she was finally granted the authority to simply say _enough_.

But if such was so, why did Leliana keep her profession alive? Did she not also have the privilege of saying _enough?_ Perhaps she merely wasn't ready to, by choice.

Although, unfortunately, the conspiracy taking residence in their small manor and the surrounding acres had incited gossip amongst neighbors. _They are attracted to the blood of sacrifices within that manor,_ some whispered. _That mage who lives there is a maleficar, practicing blood magic with abandon. I hear she has protection from the Inquisition and the Empress and can do so without fear!_

While it was a source of some guilt for Leliana, Kanín greatly surprised her by finding it humorous. But what a dire subject to joke about, in light of the past…

It invoked many memories. Times long ago when Kanín preferred to spend her evenings in Morrigan's company, listening to her monstrous tales of the wastes and wilds, of twisted demons and dark, forgotten magic. It had been natural for her to immediately gravitate toward the first mage she had ever made the acquaintance of outside the Circle, and Morrigan being an apostate her entire life had only amplified Kanín's desire to absorb what knowledge and experiences she was willing to provide. But Morrigan being that special influence, or even a focus of mild infatuation, had a_ profound_ effect on her. In Leliana's eyes, she had aggravated an illness of the heart Kanín brought with her from the tower; a sense of wanderlust inherent to her person, warped and corroded into anger by years of being denied the vast, beautiful, terrible world. And now she was set loose, filled to the brim with old resentments only to be overflown by Morrigan's philosophies that championed self-preservation and the accumulation of power over all else.

Leliana recalled one night soon after witnessing the near-destruction of Ferelden's Circle Tower and the subsequent resolution of the peril engulfing Redcliffe, while trying their best to swallow down muddy-gray chunks of Alistair's hare stew, Leliana caught sight of darkly-stained bandages protruding from the sleeves of Kanín's robe whenever the mage moved her arms just so. She was fidgeting, her eyes cloudy with distraction, and vitality almost perceptibly evaporating from subtly-trembling wrists. It was peculiar enervation, a faintness that one contracted when suffering... blood loss.

A confrontation had been necessary. Who else but Morrigan could have planted such ideas in Kanín's head? Fuming, Leliana went to her tent that night and boldly demanded to know if the witch had been teaching the Grey Warden blood magic.

"'Twas not I," had been Morrigan's cool reply. "My own magical prowess is quite adequate without having to resort to such practices. In our Warden's case, however, 'tis either a sign of desperation or the attraction to a ritual of yet unknown power. Both of which are difficult to allay when one has truly tasted either… But, it also must be asked: why do you presume that blood magic requires instruction before use? Is blood not simply a potent substance, as lyrium is, to which those of magical talent have expedient access?"

Instead of interrogating Morrigan any further, Leliana left for Kanín's tent. As expected, her questions were met by a wall of_ it's none of your concern, _but not outright denial. In that situation, it had been extremely telling of guilt. With some persistence, Kanín's arguments soon developed into_ we need help, we need anything_ once she realized that her dodging was ineffective. After all that had already happened, Kanín reasoned, they were just barely scraping by and there was still an archdemon waiting to swallow them whole.

"Isn't it a proper bargain," Kanín had said, the strength of her voice in shambles and her tone verging on frenetic, "to trade wholesomeness for an advantage when facing the monster that's destroying my country?"

"Not if it kills you before you even get the chance," Leliana replied, speaking with profoundness drawn directly from her heart. She sat with the mage, placing a kind hand on her upper arm. "Look at what became of Jowan! I thought you condemned what he did."

Her statement was true. Back in the dungeons of Redcliffe, Kanín had raged at him through the bars of his cell, denouncing his deception and stupidity. In reality, she might have been most furious of all at the fact that passing true judgement on him was simply something she could not bear to do when the time came. But in the tent with Leliana, her words reflected something different.

"Jowan was a fool," she had hissed. "He used his magic recklessly and with little understanding of consequence. But I'll do it right. I'll use my blood for something good, something worthwhile. You have my word."

In the orange light of a lantern illuminating the tent's interior, Leliana beheld what fear and desperation had wrought. A paleness of flesh and dark wells of exhaustion forming beneath her eyes, as if there were already demons upon her, clawing hungrily at her soul. As if the very moment Kanín slipped into sleep, all the denizens of the Fade would rush toward her as they would a beacon and split her mind and body open. It would be impossible to leave her like this for the long night.

In resolution, she laid her down on the makeshift bed of blankets and old furs. Kanín was compliant given the weariness in her bones. And then, to the mage's consternation, Leliana folded her hands together and began quietly reciting a prayer.

"I passed my harrowing, you know," Kanín quickly objected. "With flying colors."

"You can never be overly careful in situations like these," Leliana said. And she resumed, humbly requesting mercy and patience for Kanín; a ward to keep malevolent spirits at bay. Though improvised, her prayer evoked the cadence and vernacular of the Chant, yet all the demands and conditions that had become synonymous with it were mercifully, affectionately absent. For once in her life, Kanín had felt more soothed than accused when hearing words loyal to the Chantry.

When silence blanketed the tent once more, Kanín spoke hoarsely. "In the tower, we had so few windows. So few opportunities to see what lied past all the stone. And those windows we had were always guarded by the Templars. They never said anything adverse. The Templars were these pious, devoted heroes who protected us and other people from what we were. Accursed monsters. Keili always spoke of that. Sometimes she spoke about how she wanted to die." She paused, staring blankly at the lantern before turning her gaze back toward Leliana. "I don't think I can believe in the Maker, Leliana. Not when He lets these things happen to us."

"It is a test, Kanín. We are all tested in life. We are all given burdens. Some are unequal to others', but how we carry them is the true test of our characters. Your actions in the face of adversity will show who you are." Leliana searched for the mage's clammy hand, gathering it into the warmth of her own and squeezed in reassurance. "If you cannot put your faith in the Maker, you mustn't lose faith in yourself. You are stronger than you think and you _can_ defeat the evil in this world without sacrificing your principles."

Dreary eyes watched her, hesitant to believe anything, but no longer shut off from all proposal and suggestion.

Leliana stayed with her for the night, leaving her own tent vacant as she slept vigilantly beside her companion, prepared to leap into consciousness if an ominously restless sleep afflicted the body near her. The last statement of the night, before the lantern was blown out, came from Kanín, "Your kindness exceeds that of whom you so devotedly praise."

The next day, when attacked by darkspawn on the road Kanín raised a firestorm so hot, controlled, and magnificent that Leliana could envision Andraste's holy diadem round her head amid the searing flames. The night had been worth seeing Kanín like that, with new-found power and confidence coursing through her body. It had been _completely_ worth it, even through the tentative questions and complementary childish teasing by others about Leliana spending the night in a tent other than her own. She endured the prodding without revealing the grim truth about what evils the de facto leader of their company had flirted with.

Curiously enough, idle teasing had opened up internal discourse within both Leliana and Kanín regarding their perceptions of one another, and even of themselves. This extended hand Leliana had offered despite who the Warden had proven to be previously—a young woman cold and uncaring and driven toward a single goal with little concern for what road they paved and left in their wake—had awoken something within her never experienced before during her sheltered life. Such benevolence, such attentiveness to another's suffering, had proven to be more influential and shaping than all the magic Kanín could conceive.

One evening, Leliana spoke of what memories she still possessed of her mother. Fading, darkening, unraveling memories of a woman with kind embraces and an even kinder voice, stolen away from her too early, too painfully. All that remained was a a little footnote; the scent of Andraste's Grace, sweet and serene and mending. She clung to that recollection with a grip that could not be pried away so long as she lived. And the Warden, carrying the remembrance of Leliana's great deed of compassion freshly in mind, acted upon the desire to heal and assuage in grateful reciprocation.

After much discreet searching along their travels, in the shade of a windmill was found a little white wildflower with a blushing red center, soon plucked from the earth and promptly delivered to Leliana before it wilted. Leliana's initial reaction was troubling; a contrite upward curve of her brows as if in momentary grief at exposure to so poignant a memory, but it melted into sincere delight once all pain was numbed by the soothing fragrance seeping from its petals. The gesture had tenderly touched her heart, and she made no secret of it. With the flower clutched dearly (but delicately) to her chest, Leliana bestowed her thanks through means of sweet words and appreciative touches of the face. Red dashes of warmed blood on cheeks trailed behind the paths of her fingertips.

Over the following weeks, exchanged flowers secretly found homes pressed between the pages of a leather-bound field journal and a pocket-sized poetry volume. New literature was often created in the margins. Across from an illustration of wild blood loti Kanín had scrawled unrelatedly, _I fear that if I should discover a new species of flora on my travels I shall name it Leliana _(then, in a fresh thickness of ink that alluded to it being added some time later),_ provided it is of a pleasant nature._ And Leliana once wrote, in between lines of poetry, _To possess a heart filled with adoration. To want of little aside from your companionship. For the Maker to have been so kind to us both, against the misery and woe of a Blight._

Brushing of hands gradually became intentional. Kisses placed on knuckles migrated to the face, to foreheads, cheeks, then lips—chaste and sweet like promises of unconditional, ceaseless mutual care. But this behavior gave proper cause for Leliana to wonder: did one kiss a mere friend with such fondness? Did one seek said friend's touch and company while heat took residence in flesh? There were certainly some that did, but was she among them?

Inevitably there came a night when their remarks, fingers leisurely woven into hair, and coincidences of lips became too weighted with physical indulgence to delay defining what they were any longer (and what a peculiar conversation that had been).

In the present, Kanín roused Leliana from her thoughts by passing a final letter to her. The handwriting was unmistakable, and any remaining doubts she may have harbored were dismissed by the familiar seal on the envelope. She broke it, and read the letter thoroughly while Kanín awaited to hear of what it contained.

A brightness found Leliana's features as she regarded the mage. "Josie has invited us to a wine tasting party in Lydes. Two weeks from tomorrow." She handed the letter to Kanín, who began scanning the flowing script. "You _must_ come so you can meet her; all these years I've provided her nothing but stories. You're long overdue for a personal appearance. Will you?"

"Of course," she replied. From what Kanín had been told, Josephine Montilyet was a woman of exceptional decency and a pure delight to speak to. And any cherished friend of Leliana's was deserving of anything she could provide, especially since the number of friends present in their lives had dwindled as of late, whether from preoccupation due to positions of leadership and responsibility, distance, or unfortunate estrangement. Sometimes it was all three.

It brought great joy to Kanín, seeing that Leliana had procured friends of respectable character. With a profession such as hers, a fear of associates with insidious and manipulative intentions was not unwarranted. But the Left Hand of the previous Divine, the Inquisition's spymaster, had always stood on her toes. Experience had taught her whom to grow close to, and whom to keep watchful eyes upon.

One name always seemed to surface whenever Kanín pondered this, perhaps the cause of her worries in the first place: _Marjolaine_. Long ago, when Leliana told her of the horrifying things her former bardmaster had done, an anger hotter than any she had ever felt before broiled in the confines of Kanín's chest. _"I'll rip her heart out,"_ had been her response, and her only thought while walking the streets of Denerim in search of Marjolaine's retreat.

She would always remember Marjolaine. The poison in her voice, the haughty sneering when Kanín's words grew aggressive, "And who is this, Leliana? Have you found yourself a barking Ferelden hound to hang on your every lie?"

Leliana's hands, balled into tight fists at her sides, shook with hatred. Kanín had believed that Leliana was trying to muster the courage to walk away. Although it was a noble goal, Kanín could not bear to think of the ramifications Leliana would suffer if Marjolaine was allowed to walk free. At her side she leaned in closely and gently whispered, "If you let her go, she will hunt you for the rest of your life. Unless we end her, she will never allow you to know peace."

Her intense glare never left Majolaine's face, even as Kanín continued, "But _you_ don't have to do it." The Warden had glanced back in gesture at Sten and Alistair, whose hands were at their blades and their eyes locked with those of Marjolaine's armored guards. Leliana only briefly followed her gaze to acknowledge the readiness of her companions. They would spill blood in her stead if she needed them to, such had their loyalty become.

With startling swiftness an arrow was retrieved from its quiver, fitted into her bow, and its speared head brought to level with Marjolaine's face. Her guards thrust their shields in front of their employer and drew their swords, preparing to cut Leliana down the moment she let an arrow fly. The intensity of her focus neared the point of trembling.

"So this is how it is," Marjolaine had hollowly said. "You would have made a fine bardmaster, Leliana. You've become more like me than you realize."

Abruptly Leliana had changed targets, turning her aim upon one of the guards. Bereft of his shield, her arrow pierced through the thin armor under his sword-arm and the pain wrenched the blade from his hand. Their battle ensued; resounding clangs of metal against metal, sparse furniture reduced to splinters at the crushing blows of mauls and axes, cleaving bolts of lightning and scorching tongues of flame. When all was nearly over, Leliana had seized Marjolaine on the floor, rendering her hand useless by a plunge of a blade into her palm.

She pressed her dagger's edge harshly to her throat. Blood from a burst corner of Marjolaine's lip had ran down her chin, its river spilling down the side of her neck and painting the wooden floor beneath her head a deep, slick, shining crimson. And even at the gates of death she mocked Leliana.

"Not even the Chantry could turn you away from what you are," she had said. "What a joke it all was. What a _joke_—"

Leliana's agony and fury carved the woman's throat open. All others were silent while Marjolaine experienced her last struggling gasps, and their silence persisted when Leliana finally rose to her feet. The dagger dropped from her hand with a clatter, doing little to mitigate her blood-spattered appearance, but still she attempted; retrieving a handkerchief from a pocket and wiped her hands, her light gauntlets, her boots. And she departed, walking past them with no further comment after, "I need to be alone for a while."

Back at camp, Kanín remembered the sound of muffled sobbing coming from Leliana's tent. There was a quality about it that hinted at a sense of undesirability, as if the one who wept sincerely did not want to, but no amount of staidness could hold down what _needed_ to be released. Her tears had not been shed for Marjolaine, no—but for fear of her venomous last words holding truth, Leliana had admitted at a later time. Because hunting her down had felt _good_, frighteningly good...

"Is that it? For the post?"

Kanín found Leliana's inquiring gaze. Her eyes turned downward to the piece of mail currently in her hands, a negligible letter from a supposed distant relative of Kanín's, which she found to be the last in the stack. She dropped it listlessly to the table.

"Nothing?" Leliana asked.

Kanín shook her head.

"I'm sure we'll hear something soon."

The mage was not so certain. Hawke was resourceful and clever, but tracking down a single woman who had lived as an expat in Nevarra for years, possibly under a new name to escape the shame of the Amell's, was no easy task. Was Revka even still alive? And if she was, did she even care to contact any of her children? Certainly the success tied to the appellation _Hero of Ferelden_ was just as much a lure to Revka as it was to the occasional 'eighth cousin' appearing in her mail. Closure was all Kanín asked for. A few words, an apology, a rude goodbye—anything at all.

She lifted her tea, raising the cup to her lips. As she did, a rattling of the porcelain—the base of the cup against the dainty plate—more than usual caught Leliana's attention.

"You will go to Lydes with me?" she asked.

Kanín gave her a curious expression, cup pausing were it was held near her mouth. She did not yet grasp the reason for being asked again. "Yes, that's what I said." More faint rattling, as she set her cup down. Blue eyes and sharp ears tracked it.

"It is a few days away, you realize."

"Yes, I'm aware."

"Will your health allow the trip?"

Kanín exhaled slowly, glancing out at the rainstorm, that back to the other woman. "This is nothing, just a bit of... fatigue."

There was a pause. It ended when Leliana rose from her seat. "You should be eating heartily then. I'll get you some cured pork, or—"

"I'm fine, Leliana," Kanín gently objected, reaching out to take her hand into her own. "Thank you."

Upon looking down to see where their hands joined, Leliana saw something she had many, many times before, but had never managed to become comfortable with seeing. Scars along the mage's arm, from fingertips to palm, staggered over the full length of her forearm. And they were not the tiny marks from more than a decade ago, no; these were recent, and darker in coloration. These were inflicted by too many experiments when researching how to cleanse one's blood of the taint. Too many spells whose power was such that the flesh could not be knitted back together without leaving behind obvious seams, and the recklessness of said spells having increased to frightening degrees when little lyrical whispers began to creep into Kanín's head. It was too early for the Calling, those aiding her efforts had said. In one instance they had found her reclusively shut in her quarters for the evening without taking any supper, hunched forward in a chair, slowly rocking herself back and forth whilst mindlessly rubbing her wrists. Only laying a hand on the Warden's shoulder and shaking her had roused her from the worrying state.

Whether the voices had somehow arrived in response to her tampering or by purely awful luck was a inquiry left unanswered. It had not mattered at the time.

But when she had finally succeeded in removing the blighted blood from her body, lasting effects had not spared her. She suffered a diminished vitality. Her body had housed the taint for years and adapted to it, and when it was suddenly stripped from her veins it also removed the additional strength it had provided, leaving Kanín with occasional weak spells and shortness of breath. The debilitation carried over into almost every activity in her life, from limiting the lengths of their strolls in the market or lightly-forested roads, to times in bed when her breathing would grow labored, no longer in the pattern of arousal but in exhaustion, and fingers laced with Leliana's would become weak and lax. And Leliana would let her catch her breath, running her fingers through her hair and applying soothing kisses to her neck and jaw as she waited.

Kanín loved Leliana for her patience, but sometimes she agonized over whether the latter was perhaps dissatisfied with her love life, or even more broadly, dissatisfied with being almost completely sedentary for months on end. Did she want to go out more often? Did she want to ride horses, or attend more fanciful balls where long dances were tradition? Leliana could very well do so on her own if she desired, but most times when recreation was concerned she either ventured out with an arm linked with Kanín's or not at all.

It was probably wistful thinking, but Kanín often insisted that overall her health was improving. Leliana hoped it was true but also recognized the possibility of Kanín never fully recovering. And what if she did not? What if her inelegant process of removing the taint had permanently stolen away her health, or caused her condition to worsen over years? There was little doubt that these uncertainties also regularly plagued Kanín. Her heart wrenched in sympathy.

Leliana now felt for her as she did a decade ago; when Kanín had lied faintly in her tent, pouring her own blood into a hope that she might keep those things she held dear. Leliana felt the same amalgam of friendship, love, and protection, knowing without doubt that whatever kindness she bestowed would be reciprocated at the earliest opportunity. She affectionately stroked the hand in hers with a thumb, brushing over modestly-raised tendons and veins whose accentuation gradually increased with passing time, before settling down on the cushions seating the mage. Her arms encircled her shoulders and she kissed the side of her head, gently murmuring against black locks of hair, "I will stay by your side always, as I have promised you for years."

"Even when I burden you?"

Leliana clicked her tongue. "You do _not_ burden me," she sincerely said, adjusting her arms to increase the possessiveness of her hold. Kanín's convalescence meant nothing as a reason to leave—absolutely nothing at all. Compounded ailments of the body, sicknesses of mind... all would be treated. For Kanín was not the only one seeking recovery.

Some nights Leliana still slept restlessly. Sometimes she still wrung her hands and glared suspiciously at every acquaintance. Eyes and ears everywhere in Val Royeaux, the heart of the Game, heavy and looming over those dealt in. Memories of wily scouts creeping in shadow, the quick glints of knives raised in the dark, and loneliness, such self-imposed_ loneliness_ for fear of treachery... All had eroded whatever she once was, forever marring cliffs of trust and simplicity, and perhaps draining away all altruism and replacing it with opportunism.

_"Morrig—"_ Kanín had begun to address Leliana one afternoon, only to immediately shut her jaw the instant she realized her mistake. It had been something of a tipping point for Leliana. A moment in which she fell into deep reflection of herself, and came to the conclusion that this was not what she ultimately desired.

But not all could be undone. Violence still lingered in her bones, secrets occupied her flesh. An unwavering fierceness cultivated by years of deceit. A willingness to utterly destroy when necessary.

Her possessive hold around Kanín's shoulders did not betray these things. Leliana's love for the woman was imbued with all the conviction she had. No one would ever lay a baleful hand upon her again, so long as Leliana lived.

But her hold became of such tightness when engrossed in these thoughts, that Kanín's fingers wrapped around her wrist and gently pried it looser in search of more room for her tired lungs.


End file.
